


The Ash of Auridon

by morgiah



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls II: Daggerfall, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Dunmer - Freeform, House Hlaalu, Morrowind, Politics, Ra'athim, Royalty, Summerset Isles, pregnancy cw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgiah/pseuds/morgiah
Summary: "They've taken to calling her the Ash of Auridon, the Queen, you know? Wretched and cursed Dunmer. How could the gods allow this?"Follows Morgiah's journey post-Daggerfall, including her struggles being a foreign queen in an Altmer kingdom, and her own internal conflicts with her identity.
Relationships: Morgiah/Mannimarco, Morgiah/Reman Karoodil
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Ash of Auridon

**Author's Note:**

> Morgiah is a very niche interest so I know not many people will read this. However! If you do, please don't be afraid to leave some constructive criticism. I only recently started writing again after a years long hiatus and I know my writing needs some (a lot of) work. Just be nice pls I'm senstitive.

Mournhold was different than Morgiah remembered it. 

When the Queen of Firsthold stepped off the silt strider and removed the heavy garments from her journey, the first thing she noticed was the cold. Colder than she’d ever expected a land of volcanoes to be; though, she suspected living in the tropical Isles had skewed her judgment on temperature quite a bit. The great city of Mournhold wasn’t only cold in temperature, but in appearance. The dark, stony Dunmeri architecture felt soulless among the cloudy air of the Deshaan. While located hundreds of miles away from Vvardenfell and subsequently Red Mountain, the region still had traces of ash in its breeze. The city was dreary and desolate of passion in light of the recent hardships of Morrowind. 

Despite this, and despite the fact that she’d spent much of her life on the other side of the continent, Morgiah was relieved.

For as long as she could remember, the Dunmer was forced to move and adapt to her surroundings in the name of survival. Soon after her father was killed in a peasant uprising, Morgiah’s mother, Barenziah, had promptly swept her and her brother to High Rock with no hesitancy or remorse for the life they were leaving behind. The culture of Morrowind, of her province and her people, was taken from her in the blink of an eye. Suddenly she was no longer praying to Vivec, but to Akatosh. Her Dunmeris dialect warped into the Breton language, just as the ashfall turned into rainfall. It was difficult to leave behind a culture so proud and, at one point, mighty. But, true to her house of Hlaalu, the young princess learned very quickly the necessity of assimilation, even if her heart was elsewhere. Barenziah taught her children to be cunning and resourceful, and in that the small family stayed true to their Dunmeri roots. 

Their life in Wayrest was bland, Morgiah had hated it even as a child, but they were comfortable and safe. As she grew, she knew nothing good would come out of her step-father's wretched daughter Elysana. She’d been correct, of course; Elysana conspired against Morgiah’s brother Helseth for King Eadwyre’s throne. With a succession war on the horizon, she threw herself at the first reasonably handsome royal she met. After a bit of plotting and a few years of engagement, she did the impossible and married an Altmer king, Reman Karoodil of Firsthold. Once again the sly Dunmer was learning the customs of a new land, with her fingers crossed behind her back and a totem of Boethiah hidden behind her mirror. 

News of Helseth’s rise to the throne of Morrowind after the tragic demise of King Llethan and his heir was only slightly a slap in the face ( _why hadn’t she thought of that?_ ), but nevertheless, she arrived in Mournhold only months after his coronation to formally congratulate him. A family of schemers were loyal and close-knit, if not entirely affectionate. 

Being back in the city made her heart yearn for a time that no longer existed. A time of childhood naivety, of chasing her older brother around the halls of the castle, of her father teaching her battlemage spells, and her mother reading her Almalexia’s homilies. A time before bargaining with nobles for all her life’s choices, and before being forced to water herself down in the worst ways. A life that didn’t involve being a Queen was no life for her, but, though she’d never admit it, she sometimes fantasized about who she could be if not a mere puppet of an Altmeri royal council. 

“Perhaps we could take a detour and stop at the Temple, muthsera,” The Hlaalu councilor accompanying her from the gates of Mournhold to the castle finally spoke, wrenching Morgiah out of her thoughts. Hlaalu Elethus Dram was an insufferable mer, one she’d had the displeasure of speaking to through writing a few times. “It would be good for you to say a prayer to the gods. Bring you back to your roots. What’s left of them.”

His snide comments didn’t phase the Queen, only served as entertainment for the walk across the Godsreach district. The townsfolk eyed her and her royal escorts warily, and the Altmer who’d accompanied her looked back at them with just as much uncomfortableness. Outlanders were not uncommon on mainland Morrowind, especially not in Mournhold, but it was not everyday the Dunmer saw Altmer of such high stature in their city. Likewise, it was not often that the royal servants of Firsthold walked through the streets of a foreign capital.

Morgiah smiled at him, almost mockingly. “Why, Elethus, have you forgotten that I’m now a devout follower of the Altmer divines? Auri-El bless you, and all.”

The Dunmer scoffed, earning him a glare of disapproval from Morgiah’s most trusted counselor. While more open-minded than most Altmer, Valinwen still valued tradition above all else. This trip would not be easy for her. 

“Don’t worry, Elethus. I will pay my respects to the Temple once I’m settled in. Surely it’s reasonable for me to want to rest first, hm?”

Elethus didn’t respond, only grunted and quickened his pace so he walked ahead of Morgiah and Valinwen. As somewhat of an outsider, Morgiah couldn’t help but see the irony in the resentment the Altmer and Dunmer societies had for one another. While vastly different in many senses, the two cultures both harnessed an obsession with tradition and a resentment for outsiders. Yet neither side seemed able to recognize the similarities between them. 

Arriving at the center district of the city, Morgiah took the time to pay more attention to her surroundings. The gates to Mournhold’s castle were large, but not very extravagant, and the structure was built more like a military fortress than a palace. Where on a palace on Auridon there would be large, rounded crystalline towers, there were instead rectangular columns with sharp edges. The architecture was a strange mix of Dunmeri-Imperial, the spots that were rebuilt after Tiber Septim sacked the city obvious and out of place. It was intimidating, to say the least, and not very pleasant to the eye. The building loomed over her, so tall she could barely see the peaks. She suddenly felt foreign and small, and as if the eyes of a million of her ancestors were hidden in the stones, watching her. 

She had dreamt of returning to Morrowind, to her homeland. But was this really her homeland anymore? Her previous relief suddenly began to fade. Judging by the looks she’d gotten from commonfolk, she was seen as little more than an outlander. But the insecurity threatening to arise in her was forced to the side for the moment, she rolled her shoulders back and raised her chin slightly. They were passing through the doors and any sign of weakness in front of the royal court wouldn’t do, especially not in front of Helseth. She was already nervous enough to see her mother and brother after so long, she didn’t need his incessant questioning on top of that. Her eyes stayed trained ahead of her as they passed through the castle halls, purposefully avoiding the gaze of the Dunmer watching her, the expressions on their faces a mix of disgust and awe. Hlaalu Morgiah of clan Ra’athim, a disgrace to the Great Houses of Morrowind, a Dunmer princess conniving with Altmer bastards. Conspiracy theories of her visit were surely already in the works. Was she here to spy? To threaten their traditions? Try to turn them back to worshipping the Aedra? 

If only they knew Morgiah was even less welcome in Summerset than she was in Morrowind. 

After what felt like hours walking in tense, discountenancing silence, Morgiah and companions arrived in the throne room. It was large, as expected, and the decor represented more traditional Velothi style rather than the modern and Imperialized outside. Grand rectangular windows with rounded edges let in sunlight through frosted glass, and dark green tapestries the color of dried hackle-lo leaves decorated them, tied together with gold ribbons. Mossy green and golden seemed to be the color theme of the chamber, excluding the sanguine rug that ran from the entrance up to the platform that housed the thrones. There sat King Hlaalu Helseth on a velvet throne, leaning to the side of the chair casually with his tongue stuck out slightly in concentration, a habit he’d had since they were children. He had his ceremonial robes and diadem on for the event of his sisters arrival, a sight that procured an emotion in Morgiah that she wasn’t quite sure was jealousy or pride. What she wouldn’t give to be on the throne of Mournhold; however, she’d always known her once timid older brother would be capable of great things. 

The Steward stepped forward and opened his mouth to announce Morgiah, but Helseth raised his hand to silence him. The siblings stared at each other for a minute, neither quite sure what to say, before his lips quirked into a sly smile, one that she returned quickly. 

“Queen Morgiah,” Helseth rose from his seat and set his crown on the table beside him, walking towards her with all the confidence of a king. A strange tension hung in the air, but not one of resentment or anger. An apprehensiveness, perhaps? It’d been four or five years since they’d last met in person. Not long by elven standards, but the two mer were still rather young. They hardly knew what to make of each other, especially not as rulers. 

She nodded. “King Helseth.” 

They looked at each other for just a moment longer, before the tension cut loose and her older brother pulled her in for a tight and much needed embrace. A wide smile found its way onto her face. Her uncertainty of Morrowind and vice versa had left her hurt and confused, but in it was the familiarity that was her family. Suddenly the room around her was much more familiar, images of her mother and father sitting on the throne while her and Helseth watched the court from the balcony flashed before her eyes. The smell of sweetpulp incense and boiled ash yams, the sounds of silt striders in the distance and bickering House councilors. A pleasant warmth ran throughout her body that was only intensified by the image of her mother standing next to the siblings, arms already outstretched for her. Morgiah hadn’t even realized she was bleary-eyed until the family of three pulled away from each other and regained the composure befit of royalty.

“To see you here, safe and unharmed…” Barenziah let out a sigh of relief, bringing her hands up to cup her daughter's cheeks. “Every day I wake up half expecting a courier to arrive with news of your assassination, or imprisonment, or worse.”

Despite being over four-hundred years old, Barenziah barely looked a day over two-fifty. Faint lines did run along her skin, though she wore them with elegance and pride. Her hair was an alabaster-white, pulled tightly into an up-knotted style while a magnificent circlet fit only for the Queen Mother lay upon her forehead. Her mother had always been Morgiah’s anchor; her most trusted ally and respected advisor. Barenziah had centuries of experience as royalty and knew very well the fear and betrayal that often came along with it. She never once eluded her daughter into thinking it would be simple. Morgiah was entirely thankful for that, as her guidance had most certainly let her evade trouble multiple times. 

Morgiah smiled reassuringly and took her mother's hands off of her face gently. “You needn’t worry so much. My husband is diligent about any threat to me or us, and I have many allies. More than you’d expect,” She glanced. back at Valinwen. “Reman sends his regards, and apologies for being unable to make it. He sent gifts for both of you along with me, I’ll fish them out of my luggage in the evening.”

Helseth snorted. “Unable to make it. You mean, if both of you left the kingdom at the same time a usurper would be met with little to no resistance?”

“That’s always a very real possibility, yes,” Morgiah said. “But not as likely as you might think. Altmer society values royal bloodline highly. Yes, they want me gone, but they risk going against their traditions if they cast out Reman as well. That makes it infinitely more difficult for them. The Trebbite Monks-“

A cough came from behind them. Valinwen was looking at her with eyes that said _’a conversation for another time’_ , while she glanced frantically at the other occupants of the throne room pretending not to listen to the family’s reunion. Morgiah figured discussing Firsthold intel openly was something her counselor would very strongly counsel _against_.

“I suppose I should introduce my entourage,” Morgiah winked at Valinwen, then beckoned them forward. The group consisted of four Altmer and a Bosmer; Valinwen, three guards, and a handmaiden. The Bosmer, Laena, immediately fell into a curtsy, while the others stood stiff as boards. They awkwardly bowed at Morrowind’s royalty after a pointed look from Morgiah, and she had to stifle a laugh. She introduced them to her mother and brother. Barenziah was much more gracious than Helseth, who let out a grunted “ _welcome_ ”, then stalked off to speak to his advisors. 

After what might have been the longest moments of Morgiah’s life, she was shown the way to her guest quarters to rest after her long journey. Valinwen and Laena fell close on her heels, and when the door shut, her handmaiden immediately began a bath while her counselor sat herself into an armchair with an incisive look. 

“A land of fungus and insects and ash, where murder is legal and gods walk among mortals,” Valinwen held a small and delicate pipe between her fingers; made of shell glass and filled with a sweet tobacco native to the Isles. The Altmer was obviously attempting to assess all she’d learned of Morrowind from the short time they’d been there, her brow crinkled and honeyed eyes seemingly distant. She was of a noble family of Sunhold, apparently, but other than that had a past shrouded in secrecy. Morgiah suspected she’d been of an intelligence guild, as she doubled as Morgiah’s own personal spymaster at times, and the part fit her well. 

“It’s a bit more complicated than murder being _legal_ ,” The Dunmer began undoing her own corset, but didn’t resist when Laena rushed to take over. “There are steps one must take, it’s not like I could go out and stab the Dres noble down the hall with no consequence. In fact, I wouldn’t be stabbing anyone personally. It goes through the Morag Tong.”

“Yes, the Tong. I’ve had the displeasure of working with them once or twice.”

Morgiah raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting her maroon gown fall to the floor once the corset was loose enough. 

“I still think this was a mistake. A mistake to trust the people of this province enough that they will accept your being here. A mistake to trust your brother.”

“Helseth wouldn’t harm me,” Morgiah said, a twinge of impatience in her voice. They’d had this conversation one too many times and she was growing tired of it. Valinwen insisted Helseth couldn’t be trusted, citing sources she refused to give. Her brother was selfish, yes, and Morgiah wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t act against her in some way if he deemed it necessary to his reign. But he would denounce his claim to the throne himself before he would put Morgiah in any real danger; and he had no reason to do so anyway. 

“I never said he would hurt you, at least not on purpose. I don’t know your relationship,” She sighed. “But you can’t tell me you’re not worried that once the nostalgia subsides he’ll grow suspicious. As a king his allegiance to his kingdom comes first, and you’re married to the king of an enemy.”

“Not an enemy. Morrowind and the Isles are both Empire provinces.”

Morgiah knew how ridiculous that was the minute the words left her mouth. She pursed her lips together as Valinwen barked a laugh. 

“Saying the Isles belong to the Empire. We’re almost entirely self-governed and the Empire has little say in anything. It’s all for show.”

“I know that!” She snapped, and Valinwen threw her hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter whether we’re both part of the Empire. Morrowind and the Isles may not exactly get along but we’re not at war. He has no reason to distrust me and even if he did my mother would put him in his place. Enough about this!”

Morgiah hadn’t even noticed Laena slipped from the room without being dismissed.

“It’s not about war. A king who gains his throne under suspicious circumstances is a paranoid king,” Valinwen sat the pipe on the glass side table next to the armchair. She stood, walking past Morgiah and towards the door without so much as a glance in her direction. “Whether you aspire for said throne or not, you have a good claim; as you weren’t involved in the supposed unauthorized assassination of Llethan. Sooner or later, you’ll be little more than a threat to him.”

-

The Tribunal Temple of Mournhold was one of the many wonders of Tamriel, or so the Dunmer always said. A grand, Velothi palace made of indigo stonework and striking metallic-gold plating. The curvature of the architecture, especially around the entrance, gave the building an inviting character while the high spires on either end sought to intimidate those without the purest intentions. A testament to Almalexia herself. 

It was evening when Morgiah walked the high steps to the Temple; alone, despite the many misgivings heard from Valinwen and her mother. A setting Magnus gave a subtle orange glow to the city around her, and the moons were beginning to become visible in the darkening sky. A sickening nostalgia set in the queen’s stomach, painful memories from childhood threatening to rise. Morgiah had been forced out of Mournhold before her thirteenth birthday, before what should’ve been her first meeting with the goddess. She didn’t expect to see her today, it was after hours, but that didn’t stop the nervousness of simply being in such close proximity. What would Mother Morrowind think of her? Of her distance from her ancestry. Her connivings with non-Velothi. Would she look at her with the same contempt and disappointment as her subjects? 

As much as she didn’t wish to admit it, the thought brought such an intense distress to Morgiah it was almost hard to bear. She didn’t want to disappoint Almalexia. She was only slightly religious, it was a wonder the Tribunal Temple’s teachings had stuck with her for so long in any capacity, but with her lack of cultural identity came a desperation. She _wanted_ to belong in Morrowind. She wanted to belong to the Dunmer, to the Temple, and she wanted the living gods to accept her as they accept all their followers. Little was known to her about the Tribunal’s personalities beyond what one prayed to each for. Was she just as much a traitor to them as she was to House Hlaalu?

It took her a minute to gather the courage, but eventually she pushed the large doors open. As suspected Almalexia was not present in the foyer, but instead sat a single Hand. The woman was a Dunmer, of course, only visible due to her helmet being sat to the side of her. She was scratching at a piece of parchment intently, and only at the sound of the doors creaking shut did she look up from her writing. Her brow furrowed at Morgiah in what could’ve been confusion or annoyance, then she placed her tools beside her and stood. 

“Lady Almalexia is not seeing any pilgrims today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I know that, I-,” Morgiah swallowed, glancing at a shrine in the corner. “I just wanted to see the Temple. Pay my respects and give thanks for my safe journey. That’s all.”

The Hand of Almalexia seemed to notice her foreign garments and warped accent, and recognition flashed on her features. The look of slight suspicion on her face melted into a warm smile. Morgiah was relieved at that. 

“I’m glad you‘ve come, Princess Morgiah.”

“Queen,” She corrected, almost instinctively. 

The woman’s smile didn’t fade. “As long as you are in our lands you are our Princess. Come. I’ll lead you to the main shrines.”

Morgiah followed the Hand, wringing her palms together in anxiety. The temple was utterly beautiful. It wasn’t a surprise to her, how stunning each corridor and every piece of artwork was. Another thing Morrowind and the Isles held in common: extravagance. Though, in different ways. The Altmer were obsessed with perfection. Symmetry. Bright colors and large, unblocked windows to let in as much sunlight as possible, as every inch of artwork must be seen. With the Dunmer, everything was much more subtle. While there was no denying the beauty in the architecture or decor, sometimes the best parts of it had to be searched for. A mirage of small details that made the whole picture come together. 

“How has your visit to Morrowind been so far, sera? Do you remember much?”

“It’s been lovely,” Morgiah answered, almost too fast. In reality, it’d been anything but lovely. She felt alienated and confused and _lonely_. She never realized how much cultural identity she’d lacked, and painfully fond memories of her father and early childhood did not help her conflicted emotions. “The city is beautiful, though it’s been so long since our departure that I remember very little. I hope to become well acquainted with Mournhold while I’m here.”

“Hopefully House Hlaalu sees to it that you do.”

“I’m not sure House Hlaalu wants anything to do with me, in all honesty.”

The woman laughed, but not in an unkind way. She pitied Morgiah, in truth. So far away from her traditions for so long that she was as much of a stranger to them as they were to her. 

“You’ll have the best luck maintaining a relationship with Hlaalu, of all houses. They are diplomats; they certainly value whatever advantages having the Kings’ sister married to a King of the Isles can bring Morrowind. Or them specifically.”

They came to the shrines, housed in a large room at the end of a circular corridor. It was dimly lit, but Morgiah could make out the silhouette of three triangular statues, one for each Tribune she supposed. The room smelled of a piquant ceremonial incense that tickled her nose but made her feel a bit woozy from the intensity of it. 

“I certainly don’t feel valued,” She stepped forward towards the shrines, while the Hand stayed back and observed. A magelight appeared and floated towards the ceiling as Morgiah got closer, allowing her to see the daedric inscriptions along the statues and the many offerings along their base. She brought herself down to sit on her knees, and took out the small potion vial she’d brought as an offering. She decided her actual gold would be of better use going straight to the Temple, rather than sitting on the shrines for who-knows-how long. 

It could’ve been hours that she sat like that. Staring at the shrine, attempting to feel what other Dunmer described while visiting the Temple, the vial still clutched between her hands. The Hand, who’s name she’d later find out was Ilyne, guarded the Queen and kept a respectful distance as she prayed. 

Morgiah didn’t know what to pray for. She was not so blind to Temple traditions that she didn’t know _how_ to pray, but sitting there in Mournhold’s Temple, surrounded by those who were raised with no other faith in no other land, what could be only meters away from Almalexia herself, Morgiah again found herself feeling out of place. At first she prayed for what was expected of her. For the safety of her husband in the Isles, for the health of her mother, and success for her brother. She prayed for the less fortunate and for a plentiful harvest. And when she came to her own desires, a selfishness she allowed herself at that time, she prayed for belonging. She never belonged in Cyrodiil or High Rock, she certainly didn’t belong in Firsthold, and now she didn’t even belong in Morrowind. Just once, since her childhood, she wanted to feel comfortable and like she wouldn’t be forced to pack up and flee at any moment. 

“The last time I’d attended a Dunmer ceremony was my father's funeral,” Ilyne started for a second when Morgiah spoke after so long. The queen still sat in front of the shrines, but her eyes were open and looking at nothing. 

She continued, “This was a different service than the memorial service held by the Empire. This was a proper Velothi funeral and the last time any of us—my mother, Helseth, and I—saw Morrowind for a very long time,” A sigh escaped her lips and she began to her feet, accepting a helping hand from Ilyne. “I was fifteen. It was seven years after he died, when we finally got the chance to properly put him to rest. I was so overcome with the returning grief that I did not get to appreciate the ceremony for what it was. I regret that now.”

Ilyne was studying her with a sad smile. “You were young and in mourning, Princess. Do you remember it, at least?”

“I remember the procession. I remember being angry at my mother for dredging up memories. I remember the potent smell of the Ancestral tomb-“ Ilyne’s nose scrunched up at this. “-And how my mother wept over the ashpit. The whispers, though. The whispers of the ancestors in the tomb, my ancestors, still ring through my mind like it was only yesterday.”

“Do you remember what they said?”

The Queen of Firsthold glanced at the shrines one last time, her solemn face reflecting dimly in the stone. 

“I’m not sure I want to.”

-

Later, after returning to Mournhold’s castle and having the servants fill her a hot bath, Morgiah tossed and turned in bed, attempting to shake the thought from her mind. She couldn’t, though. The memory had been forced up out of the deep chains of her mind. The whispers all around her from unseen ghosts, and though she was with others in the tomb, it had felt like they were speaking directly to _her_.

They spoke in Ald Chimeris, the mother tongue to Dunmeris. She understood very little, but one phrase had stood out. One phrase was repeated multiple times by multiple different haunted voices with so much weight she was forced to translate it. _Muhrju errat av Velothis, ara av Auridon_.

Lost child of Velothi, ash of Auridon.


End file.
